LINDIGO.
CHAPTER I.
AN AWKWARD INTRODUCTION.
"Plague the fish,—not another cast shall I make,—better feast my eyes on this grand scenery." These were the words which escaped from the lips of an unsuccessful angler, on the river Linn, in the western Highlands, one calm summer morning. Then tossing his rod on the bank, he stepped up towards the end of the old wooden bridge which spanned that noble stream, where it discharges itself in the head of Loch Linn.
The young sportsmen thus unceremoniously presented to the reader, was apparently a stranger in those parts, judging from his garb, and the visible admiration he manifested in beholding the surrounding prospect. His handsome figure and noble bearing proved him at once to be some young scion of the English aristocracy.
The magnificent scenery which presented itself to his view was truly sufficient to enrapture the mind, and calculated to revert youthful and elevated thoughts like his to many romantic tales and scenes associated with the Highlands, often read of, but never before now experienced in their true effect.
The winding Linn, which meandered slowly through the glen, glittered over its pebbly bed, and exhausted its sparkling waters in the head of the estuary, lay at his feet. The hills and mountains, rising gradually on both sides like waves, cast their frowning shadows on the bosom of Loch Linn. On the south side rose Ben Mòr, towering above the rest, and as if looking over with contempt on its insignificant rival Ben Veg, which held it station on the north side; both appearing like gigantic sentinels weighing over the peaceful scenery below.
Loch Linn lay in sweet repose, disturbed only an occasional splash from the silvery trout and salmon, manifesting their impatience to ascend the tempting stream by leaping in the air, and falling back again into their limpid element.
The numerous islets which studded the distance swarmed with seafowls, sending up their chorus to welcome the morning sun, in conjunction with the feathery warblers which inhabited the plantations on both sides.
About a mile from the bridge, on each side of Loch Linn, were situated two elegant mansions, whose dazzling windows, white walls, gables, and blue slated roofs, stood in bold relief amidst the dark green foliage of the orchard trees around them.
Extending further along the margin of the estuary, lay extensive meadows and fields of corn, enclosed by secure hedges, proving the comfort and affluence of their respective owners.
Both farms were laid out on the same plan, and as if each proprietor strove to excel his neighbour in improving and developing to the utmost extent the resources of his extensive property.
Large herds of sheep and cattle were browsing over the meadows and sides of the hills and glens, with their young gambolling by their side,—and enjoying their delicious morsels of green herbage, moistened by the morning dew. The milch cows giving vent to their impatience in supplying their young with their liquid burdens, by an unceasing lowing, whose melodious echo resounded through hills and dales, added to the sweet ditties of the dairy maids, all contributing to entrance the soul of the stranger, and fancying himself transported to some fairy land.
While his mind was thus intoxicated with the effects of such charming novelties, and as if to complete the scene, his eye caught sight of a female form emerging from among the labyrinth of shrubs and bushes which fringed the borders of the gravel walk leading from the mansion on the north side, and apparently coming towards the bridge where he stood.
Anxious to have a nearer view of the sylph-like figure which tripped along, now and then bending to pluck a choice flower from each side, and fearing his presence might prevent her approach, he hid himself behind a hazel bush by the end of the bridge. Thus, in perfect security from being observed by any person coming nigh, he awaited with a beating heart, creating many lovely images in his own mind to correspond with the Highland maiden now fast approaching, and who, as he anticipated, on coming to the bridge halted within a few paces of his ambush. But what must have been his surprise and admiration in beholding in her a far lovelier and more beautiful creature than his wildest imagination could form, and rivalling the heroine of Loch Katrine—"The Lady of the Lake"—of which his own peculiar situation, and the similarity of both cases reminded him. The following lines of the famous Scottish poet, which were so applicable to the fairy form before him, flew to his memory:—
And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace,
Of finer form, or lovelier face;
What though the sun with ardent frown,
Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown;
The sportive toil, which short and light,
Had dyed her glowing hues so bright;
Served too in hastier swell to show,
Short glimpses of a breast of snow;
What though no rule of courtly grace
To measured mood had trained her pace;
A foot more light, a step more true,
Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew;
E'en the slight hairbell raised its head,
Elastic from her airy tread;
What though upon her speech there hung
The accents of the mountain tongue,
Those silvery sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear!"
There, indeed, stood the counterpart of Ellen Douglas, although seemingly not so ripe in years.
For a few moments she remained in the same position, so still that no visible motion of her finely modelled form was perceptible save the heaving of her snow-white bosom which was partially uncovered.
She was clothed in a plain dress of Mackay tartan, with plaid and bonnet of the same material. Her unrivalled fair neck and shoulders were bare, contrasting admirably with her rich brown hair, which fell in natural ringlets round them.
Her rosy cheeks were slightly tinged with brown, giving her a more healthy and interesting appearance. Her large liquid black eyes were shaded with long lashes of the same hue under arched pencilled brows. Her smiling cherry lips were parted, disclosing the most exquisite set of ivory teeth.
Her tiny feet and ankles were encased in white stockings and slippers, which were partly exposed by her holding her skirt from the dew in one hand, while in the other she held a bouquet of flowers.
Gazing intently towards Ben Mòr, from which direction she apparently expected some one, and, not observing the object of her search, she heaved a deep sigh, and, to the stranger's astonishment, murmured audibly in pure English—"Whatever is detaining him?".
The enraptured stranger stood transfixed in his hiding-place, and afraid to breathe lest the beating of his heart should frighten away from his gaze the beautiful creature who now made a move round the bush where he stood, towards the bank of the river where his rod and basket lay, and which she had not noticed until almost treading upon them. On making the discovery she gave a startled scream, and gazed cautiously around, when the stranger made himself visible, and in set terms apologized for not making his appearance before.
The young maid seemed terrified and confused, and made no reply, but began to retrace her steps; when, in so doing, she had to pass close by the stranger to regain the path. Seeing all chance of detaining or engaging her attention vanish, a desperate and inconsiderate resolution seized him, which on maturer consideration he might condemn. Instantly, picking up the flowers which she had dropped in her affright, he held them towards her with a bland smile—remarking—"Unless I am to be honoured by retaining such a beautiful token from so charming a donor, I beg leave to return them." The coy maiden being too confused to return an answer to this gallantry, held out her hand to receive her flowers, when the unprincipled stranger, taking advantage of the opportunity, seized her hand, and suddenly pulled her towards him, then encircling her tapering waist with his other arm, attempted to embrace her.
She shrieked loudly for help, and struggled hard to release herself, but all in vain. That moment her quick ears caught the sounds of well-known strides bounding over the bridge, when she cried imploringly—"Charlie, dear, save me!" The words had hardly escaped her lips, when the stranger was laid his whole length on the sward, and a youthful Highlander held her insensible form in his arms.
This third person who arrived so opportunely on the scene, was a young man nearly of the same height as the stranger, but although apparently younger, had the advantage in symmetry of form. His eagle eyes and fine open countenance showed great courage and daring. His well-developed limbs, dressed in the Highland garb of Royal Stuart tartan, proved great bodily strength and activity. A handsome fowling-piece, and a brace of ptarmigans lay on the ground by his side, over which stood a couple of well-bred pointers.
When the discomfited stranger regained his feet, and perceived the young couple so fondly locked in each others arms, his rage and mortification burst forth in the following words:—"Were it not for that damsel in your arms, I would teach you a lesson which you would not easily forget," and casting his eyes on the game, he added—"who has given you permission to shoot on this estate?" "You cared but little a few minutes ago what insult you would commit on this innocent maiden, and as for my shooting on this estate, it is no business of yours," replied the Highlander defiantly. "We will see," added the stranger, with a malignant look, and seeing no use of retaliating at present, he picked up his rod and basket, muttering future revenge.
While the young Highlander is restoring his inanimate charge into consciousness, we shall endeavour to enlighten the reader on the several characters who played such a conspicuous part in the above drama; but in order to bring forth more fully the events and circumstances which led to such awkward consequences, we must take him back a short period prior to the commencement of our tale.
About that time, several Highland chiefs, or lairds, became greatly embarrassed, through passing the most of their time in the English metropolis, striving to cope in style and grandeur with the more wealthy noblemen of that kingdom; when they ought to have been living moderately on their estates, attending to their improvement, and studying the comfort of their tenants, on whom they depended for their income. The consequence, therefore, may be anticipated; through heavy mortgages which they were unable to liquidate, the estates were sold to some wealthier purchasers, and, in many instances, to English proprietors. Such had been the case in the instance of the estate on which the above scene took place. Its former proprietor had, of late years, taken up his abode in London, where he contracted enormous debts, and had been compelled to sell his valuable estate, which became the property of the Earl of Saxton, who made the purchase for his son and heir, Lord Lundy, then in his nineteenth year, and the first person presented to the reader; and, who, on coming into possession, started at once to the Highlands with a large circle of friends, to pass the season in shooting and other amusements. So precipitate were their movements, that no one on the estate was aware of their arrival at the castle, or even conscious that the property had changed proprietors.
Kinlocklinn was, at that time, inhabited by two of the wealthiest and most comfortable tenants on the whole estate. The one Mr. Stuart, who lived in the mansion on the south side, and father of Charlie, the young Highlander above referred to, and the other, Mr. McKay, who lived on the north side, and father of Isabella, (or Bella, as she was called), and the heroine of this tale.
Mr. Stuart was one of those noble specimens of ancient Highland gentlemen who are now so rarely met with. His unbounded hospitality and generosity, made him an object of universal veneration and esteem among all classes of society.
He could trace his lineage from the Royal House of his name, whom his ancestors had always upheld until the last struggle of Charles Edward, when they lost their rights to Kinlochlinn, which they held for generations, but since held by them under tenure.
Mr. Stuart was also a distant relation to the unfortunate late laird, whom he served as agent or factor, in consideration of which he held his extensive farm rent free.
Passionately fond of his only son Charles, now eighteen, he spared no means or pains in giving him all the advantages which the best college education could afford; and also furnishing him with all necessaries becoming a thorough gentleman and sportsman; and never before was the liberality of an indulgent and affectionate parent towards a dutiful son more amply rewarded.
Naturally quick and brave, blended with a most honourable and amiable disposition, and possessing great strength and agility according to his years, Charlie Stuart was considered the most successful and accomplished sportsman in his part of the country. Whether on mountain or moor, fishing in a stream or lake, his steady and quick eye made him a leader of all parties. Being a great favourite of the late laird's, he had full liberty to shoot and fish on the estate.
He was also an excellent horseman, his parent furnished him with the best hunter that could be procured, and he was capable of managing the wildest horse with ease.
Mr. Stuart had been a widower ever since his son's birth. His wife had been a very amiable person, and a near relation of Mr. McKay's. Her loss was greatly felt by all her acquaintances, especially by her excellent husband, who could never think of replacing her by marrying another.
Mr. McKay was also a very excellent man, possessing a great share of common sense, and more experienced in worldly affairs than his neighbour, having passed part of his early life in India, where he had a rich brother, and where he accumulated what was considered in the Highlands a fair competency. He married after his arrival from abroad a lady of the McDonalds, with whose brother he became acquainted in the Company's service in India. They had only two children. George, a companion of Charlie Stuart's, and who was then at Oxford through the liberality of his wealthy Indian uncle.
The other child was our heroine, Bella, now in her fifteenth year; her mother died when she was ten. Bella was considered from her infancy one of the sweetest and most affectionate creatures in existence, and gained the love and admiration of all who knew her, possessing every charming quality, added to a rare and extraordinary grace and beauty. Always in the company of George, her brother, and Charlie Stuart from her childhood, and when any innocent disagreement took place between herself and George, Charlie always took her part. No wonder, therefore, she loved him better than her brother. Charlie being naturally warm-hearted and kind, having no brother or sister of his own, concentrated all his affections on this tender flower, whose meek temper coincided so faithfully with his own; consequently the attachment became mutual, and even when grown up there was no alteration in their affections. It almost puzzled themselves how to account for such partiality, for when George left for London, and Charlie for Edinburgh University, Bella could not comprehend how she missed the latter's company more than her own brother's, who had gone to another kingdom. Charlie, on the other hand, wondered how little he cared for the company of the fashionable Edinburgh ladies, when away from his old playmate, Bella McKay. The only conclusion he came to, was that she was an older acquaintance, and called after his own mother. Thus argued these children of nature, never dreaming that something more than friendship was budding in their young hearts, which they themselves were yet ignorant of.
Both families thus stood on the most intimate footing, and regularly visited each other, the only point of dispute between the senior members of the family being a difference in political principles, particularly as to the monarchy; while Mr. Stuart still strenuously advocated the claims of his namesakes, the Stuarts, to the Crown, Mr. McKay supported the House of Hanover, and so strongly had this loyalty taken possession of their hearts, that the one named his son after Charles Edward, while the other named his after King George.
This cross-fencing, however, always ended in a drawn battle, and never in the least interfered with the harmony which existed between the families.